


Take My Heart- Drain It All

by Sonzaishinai



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: A very obvious warning will pop up later based on the main relationship, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bruce comes off as a piece of shit initially but there will be more background later, Bruce is not rich, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Graphic, Heavy Angst, I wrote this listening to a true crime podcast, It will get sad, Its gonna get violent asf, M/M, Murder, NO CAPES, Poor Bruce literally and metaphorically, Sociopath Clark, Stockholm Syndrome, There will be explanations to most everything, eventually, its fucking DARK, slow start, there will be angst, there will be references to murderers, they're teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-26 19:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17751746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonzaishinai/pseuds/Sonzaishinai
Summary: Bruce cried. He cried and cried, regret and hopelessness engulfing his already deteriorating sanity and wished he could just go back in time and- and just be able to tell his parents he was sorry. That he was… sorry and- and that was all- just- he’d give his heart to go back and give his apologies for being such a shitty failure of a son and sorries for having burdened their life- god-He was so fucking sorry.





	1. Legs Heavy With Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Yknow what.
> 
> I'm not gonna hold myself back anymore. I'm gonna write what I wanna fucking write. Things are really stressing me out. This week's been really shitty. I haven't slept peacefully nor undisturbed for a week. I keep getting nightmares and yesterday I was having a really good dream before everything turned to fucking shit and I woke up in an episode of sleep paralysis. 
> 
> On another note, I've been delving really deep into murder podcasts and this fic was actually an idea I've had since I jumped into the fandom from none other than the shitshow we call Homestuck about a good two years ago. Serial Killer Clark Kent. Yeah.
> 
> We will see how this goes because I'm not gonna hold back this time. I'm gonna go full in dark, graphic, and in no way pleasant. Characters will suffer. I will base stuff off of murders I've read about and psychological thrillers I've enjoyed, one of which being The Silence of the Lambs and more that I can no longer recall the titles of. I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I wanna do (this isn't passive aggressive at anyone, I just write like this often when unrestrained) with this story, and for those unfamiliar with how and what I write, the trigger warnings will be posted to the tags. 
> 
> Cause shit will get real if I can get to completing this.
> 
> Enjoy.

Bruce screamed and thrashed, arms and legs immobilized by the thick, scratchy rope that left his skin red and irritated. His face was reddened with the strain, and his mouth was stuffed with a thick cloth that muffled his desperate bellows, soaked with his flowing tears.

 

His vision was completely blacked out, trapped in the suffocatingly pungent air of a trunk. Outside, though, the bumpy traction of the car had stopped, and he was privy to the sounds of conversation outside of the metal barrier.

 

“HELP ME!!!” he tried to scream with no luck. The muffled words continued to flow with no distinction between either of the male voices. Inside his own head, Bruce begged to whatever fucking gods were watching him to listen and to please let the police officer hear his pleas. He continued to shed tears, though, hiccups caught against the cloth as the officer and his kidnapper talked, Bruce catching “busted tail light” in the casual air.

 

Momentarily, he froze with ingenuity before suddenly thrashing more in frustration, sobbing at his inability to use his limbs. Too fucking expertly tied up to do shit, too far from the door to the trunk to make a sound!! A desperate whine escaped his throat and snot ran down from his nose.

 

Past his sobs, though, he slowly registered the pause in voices and his heart surged with hope-

 

-and then the car lurched with the ignition, and gravel sounded outside whilst the cop drew away- farther and farther, his savior went-

 

-and he sobbed a long and hard whine, the light of day escaping him both metaphorically and physically from there on out. The car began to shake as it made its way back onto the road, and with a sudden stop, the copper-scented corpse that laid beside Bruce rolled onto him. Shrieking, Bruce let out more sobs, and he shivered with disgust, gagging as the limp head came in close proximity of his own.

 

God help him. Oh _fuck_ , god, please, help him.

 

He was so sorry. He was so fucking sorry. Please don’t let this be where he dies. Please, god, don’t let this be where he dies.

 

\--

 

“GET OUT!! GET THE FUCK OUT, BRUCE!! DO YOU HEAR ME?! OUT!!”

 

Bruce’s throat was tight with guilt, tears flowing down his cheeks in rivulets as his head throbbed with frustration and pain. He had to leave, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the shredded project in front of him- the torn apart painting that his mother had been working on painstakingly for five months. Her, standing near catatonic on the other side of the shredded remains, devastated at her hard work having been destroyed- by her own son.

 

“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT, BRUCE!!” his father screamed at him, livid and red in the face from the sheer rage he felt. In spite of his legs feeling like lead, his lungs burning like the throb of a band-aid off of skin applied to the entirety of his organs, he ran out the door, throwing it open and not turning back as he left the small home.

 

He ran. By god, he ran. He ran and didn’t turn back, racing past the curbs of Gotham and avoiding the grasping hands of curious adults. He ran and ran and ran. He ran till his legs ached- till the burn in his calves had traveled up to his poorly maintained 17-year-old lungs and a stabbing pain had developed in his side.

 

And just like that, worn out and aching all over, he turned straight down an alleyway that split into two routes, taking the left and-

 

-and stumbling right into a murder scene. Stumbling literally head-first into a broad-shouldered, tanned teenager wearing ratty old jeans and a flannel jacket who stood a whole head taller than him halfway through decapitating a woman adorning a black top, a fur scarf, jean shorts, and high heels. Right into the scene, and, god, the sudden stop from shock was so abrupt, the pain from his run hit full force. Bruce’s legs, wobbling with strain, gave out under him, his body crumpling to the floor, and the heaves and whimpers leaving his lips drew the attention of the older looking boy.

 

So he slumped, then, immobile from shock and exhaustion as his petrified eyes peered up helplessly at the teenager who, face hidden by Gotham’s shadows, dropped the corpse. Watching the already separated head lull across the cement, he dissociated till a strong, bloody grip was grasping at the front of his shirt, unbelievably lifting his entirety up into the air and drawing his limp, shaking form face to face with shadowed over, blue eyes-

 

-and then he blacked out.

 

Encountering a literal murder occurring right before his eyes, and he was too unstable from recent events to stay conscious, going limp before a guy who he’d just witnessed chopping a head off before coming to in a moving trunk headed god knows where for however long already whilst registering a cold, noxious, and slippery but soft-surfaced object rolling beside his own tied up figure before he was gagging against the thick muffling cloth with realization, terror, and disgust seizing his system.

 

Lost and trapped in the back of a killer’s trunk, who knew how far away from home, Bruce cried. He cried and cried, regret and hopelessness engulfing his already deteriorating sanity and wished he could just go back in time and- and just be able to tell his parents he was sorry. That he was… sorry and- and that was all- just- he’d give his heart to go back and give his apologies for being such a shitty failure of a son and sorries for having burdened their life- god-

 

He was so fucking sorry.


	2. Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a bit stuck in the beginning of this chapter, so I decided to move on to a different scene and, funnily enough, writing out my own frustrations in place of a character's is really easy. Like writing a journal entry. No need to force the thinking- I already know what I want to write.
> 
> Also, Martha's ringtone for Bruce's phone is part of the lyrics for "Gotta Let Go" by Hollywood Undead.

Like an oxygen-deprived man on the verge of drowning, Bruce awoke, shooting up from the hard surface he laid on, except-

 

-except his mouth was covered with two pieces of duct tape shaped into an “x” across the orifice, filtering his screams into muffles as tears flowed from his eyes in rivulets. Additionally, he never shot up at all- against a cold, concrete floor, Bruce felt around and found himself immobile via tightly drawn ropes binding him expertly. He thrashed, and for a steady second, his mind was groggy and panicked before the panic intensified and he was remembering the events of his earlier bout with consciousness. Thrashing with more effort, hopeful that he could dislodge his ropes, Bruce didn’t notice the shuffling of jeans getting closer and closer to his head from the open door out of his sight.

 

“Stop that.”

 

Bruce whined, fear seizing up his being mid-thrash. The young and pleasantly baritone voice had come from behind him, filled to the brim with authority.

 

This is it. This is where he died, oh god, this is where he was going to die- He thought he was at least going to make it 20 years, but no, he’s fucking dying at the ripe old age of SEVENTEEN!! Fucking FANTASTIC!! He was such a god damned fucking failure that he couldn’t even live to a decent age!! Why did fucking life have to be so bad for him?! Why couldn’t he just not be born at all- god- it would have been so much better for everyone if he just wasn’t born- god, please don’t let it hurt when he died- please-

 

-for as long as he’s been suffering, just let him go out in peace.

 

.

.

.

 

Except the standstill brought by the other teenager was never broken, and no blows or stabs or gunshots ever came to light. Two mind-numbing minutes of anxiety befuddling Bruce’s rational mind and still, nothing.

 

In the darkness of whatever hellhole he was thrown into, Bruce pried an eye open, glancing to the corners of his eye to peer up at the enormous and well-built teenager looming over his still body, standing neutrally with no visible intent to harm… yet.

 

“Are ya hungry?” The voice practically boomed in the small room that Bruce’s eyes had flicked over earlier, and Bruce flinched at the question. Dumbly, he continued to stare up, the tears shed earlier falling with gravity.

 

A kick was then abruptly delivered to his back, jolting him violently in surprise and fear. With it, he yelped beneath the tape and sobbed in place as the older teen bellowed. “Are you deaf!! I asked you if you’re fucking hungry!! When I ask a question, you give an answer!!” The eyes above him were clouded with fury, and Bruce began to shake. Was the bastard fucking stupid?! His mouth was COVERED!! He couldn’t say shit!!

 

For a second longer, the guy continued to peer at him with displeasure and anger, before he sighed exasperatedly like Bruce was the idiot here.

 

“I’ll fuckin hand it to ya this time, you’re scared outta your wits. Since you ain’t thinkin right, I’ll do it for you; you can nod or shake your head. Now, I’ll ask again. Are you hungry?” he said, enunciating the question again with specific emphasis like he was talking to a child.

 

Steadily, though, Bruce complied out of fear for his own life. Against the concrete, he shook his head exaggeratedly to make up for the floor blocking his movement. The teenager ‘tsk’ed.

 

“You sure ‘bout that? You ran into me at, like, 1 PM yesterday. It’s already 11 AM the next day,” he proclaimed, discussing yesterday’s events casually like Bruce didn’t literally walk into him separating a woman’s head from her torso before he himself got kidnapped. At the memory, Bruce gagged mentally and then proceeded to nod in confirmation.

 

“Ma and Pa always did tell me that I should treat my guests with the utmost hospitality, though.” He stared for a while more. “What am I to do with you, then?” he murmured, before scratching his head, face still partially shadowed over in the darkness of the room. In Bruce’s head, he replied that letting him go would be nice.

 

Of course, though, he wasn’t gonna tell the teenager that. Not that he could, anyway.

 

“I know!” was all Bruce heard before a massive, shadowed hand came down on his face, pinching his nose shut. Immediately, the panic set in, and a hand pushed on his already weak body to still his attempts to dislodge the fingers. With no success, though, Bruce struggled to breathe, and the lack of oxygen darkened his sight steadily. His lungs burned with the need for air, and his shut mouth sputtered up against the tape whilst he jack-knifed every which way to get even a little bit of breath.

 

His struggling, ultimately, was futile, and soon, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, lids shutting and body slowly going limp on the cold floor.

 

“Sleep tight, darling.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We need to contact him.”

 

Thomas made no move to respond. It’s been almost two days since the Bruce ran off, and as harsh as he’d been, he had always been a softy at heart. In no time, he was feeling regret over his response, but he couldn’t help the fury that had rose within him, then.

 

“Thomas.”

 

The older man’s eyes drifted up towards his wife. Beautiful, ever so lovely Martha. He’d hurt anyone who dared hurt her.

 

He just never anticipated his son had to be one of those.

 

“I’m not saying sorry.”

 

“It doesn’t matter whether you do or don’t, Thomas. He’s our son. We,” she swallowed, pausing a bit, “we can’t just pretend his anger was unfounded. Yes, I’m devastated at what he’s done, but…” she trailed off. Thomas understood just as well. The rage of yesterday had died down, and he couldn’t forget the argument that lead to Bruce tearing up Martha’s painting.

 

_“YOU ALWAYS DO THIS!! YOU NEVER FUCKING LISTEN TO ME!! YOU WANT ME TO SUCCEED IN LIFE BUT YOU PUT ME DOWN FOR BETTERING MYSELF EVERY FUCKING DAY!! IT MIGHT BE LIGHT-HEARTED JOKING TO YOU, BUT DO YOU TWO EVER EVEN FUCKING CONSIDER HOW I FEEL?! I’VE BEEN AT MY WITS END FOR MONTHS, LISTENING TO YOU TWO MAKE THE STRUGGLE I GO THROUGH TRYING TO MAKE YOU PROUD WITH MY GRADES SEEM LIKE LITTLE ACCOMPLISHMENTS!!”_

 

“We failed as parents, didn’t we?”

 

“Yes. Yes, we did,” Martha whispered.

 

_“I’VE SLAVED DAYS AWAY AT MY WORK AND- AND I’VE MISSED OUT ON SO FUCKING MUCH I COULD HAVE BEEN DOING WITH MY FRIENDS, JUST SO I COULD BE THE PERFECT FUCKING CHILD TO YOU TWO!! BECAUSE YOU TWO HAVE ALWAYS THROWN SHIT AROUND CLAIMING THAT YOU’D BE DISAPPOINTED IF I DIDN’T FUCKING GET BY IN LIFE!! THAT YOU’D BE DISAPPOINTED IF I DIDN’T BECOME A- A DOCTOR!! OR A LAWYER!! ANYTHING BUT YOU TWO!! DISAPPOINTED IF I DIDN’T BECOME YOUR FAILED DREAMS!!”_

 

“How did we never see that he was suffering?”  


“I don’t know…”

 

 _“_ I’VE _DUMPED FRIENDS AND OPPORTUNITIES TO HANG OUT WITH THEM JUST SO I COULD MAKE YOU TWO PROUD!! BUT YOU TWO CAN’T EVEN TAKE A MOMENT OUT OF YOUR DAYS TO SHOW EVEN THE LEAST BIT OF APPRECIATION FOR ME!! THAT FUCKING VASE YOU BROKE THAT I GIFTED YOU FOR MOTHERS DAY?! THE ONE YOU FUCKING LAUGHED ABOUT HAVING BEEN SHIT ANYWAYS AND THREW AWAY?! I SPENT TWO WEEKS WORKING ON THAT FUCKING GIFT FOR YOU!! I STAYED AFTERSCHOOL AND FUCKING WORKED MY ASS OFF TRYING TO GET IT JUST RIGHT FOR YOU!!”_

“No. We do know. We did see that he was hurt, but we never paid attention, did we?”  


“...”

 

_“WHEN WAS THE LAST FUCKING TIME YOU TWO TOLD ME THAT YOU WERE PROUD OF ME, HUH?! THAT YOU LOVED ME?! NEVER!!! I’VE NEVER FUCKING HEARD IT FROM EITHER OF YOU, AND I WISH I COULD SAY THAT I COULD SEE IT IN THE WAY YOU TWO BEHAVED WITH ME, JUST LIKE THE LITTLE THINGS HARVEY DID THAT SHOWED JUST HOW MUCH HE LOVED RACHEL, BUT FUCK!! I DON’T SEE ANY LOVE THROUGH THOSE EITHER!! I HATE YOU!! I HATE BOTH OF YOU!! DO YOU HEAR ME?! I FUCKING HATE THE BOTH OF YOU!!!”_

 

“We could call him… Tell him we’ve reconsidered things and- and that we should talk. God knows, we have to talk.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Martha took the phone by the window off of its charging station, dialing Bruce’s cellphone number and awaiting the rings to occur.

 

Startling the two, though, a singsong ringtone started sounding from Bruce’s bedroom, and the two rushed there hoping to find their son in the room only to be met with a devastating revelation.

 

 _‘_ _I sit back and think about the life I've had_

_So much to change, but I can't go back_

_What happened to that kid? He used to play in the street_

_I think about that kid, he looked just like me’_

 

“C-Call Harvey’s house!! He has to be there!!”

 

More dialing from Thomas’s cellphone.

 

_‘Had a smile, had a home, never grow old_

_When we grow up, do we have to grow cold?_

_Spent his whole life looking for salvation_

_Never realized nobody could save him’_

 

“HE’S NOT THERE!!”

 

“Oh, god- Bruce!!”

 

_‘So all these words, for what they're worth_

_I know it's hard, I know it hurts_

_And we laugh at the past 'cause it's how we learn_

_Welcome to the world, now let's watch it burn’_

 

The ringtone ran out.

 

“It’s been two days!! Where could he have gone!!”

 

Thomas grasped at his wife’s shaking shoulders. “Calm down, Martha!! Maybe he’s at Oliver’s house!! He’s got to have gone somewhere!!”

 

He watched his wife’s eyes reignite with hope.

 

And then they watched that hope dwindle, more and more, with every phone call they made.

 

Bruce wasn’t at the Queens.

 

Nor was he at Diana’s house, or Hal’s, or Barry’s- he wasn’t at anybody else’s home-

 

Martha and Thomas were now grasping at straws, calling up libraries and nearby locations that he could have stayed at. Martha’s eyes were getting wetter with potential tears, and Thomas’s voice was becoming raspier by the call, voice wavering with having to face reality over and over- that no one had seen him and-

 

-and last night, Gotham hit the low 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Two days ago, they sent Bruce out in a light long sleeve and thin sweatpants- in three days, it would be February 19, and Bruce was supposed to turn eighteen-

 

-please no. Please, god, don’t tell them he’s dead-

 

-please don’t tell them that they’ve lost the chance to tell their son that they were sorry- that they loved him-

 

Please, no. God, no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a bit stuck in the beginning of this chapter, so I decided to move on to a different scene and, funnily enough, writing out my own frustrations in place of a character's is really easy. Like writing a journal entry. No need to force the thinking- I already know what I want to write.
> 
> Also, Martha's ringtone for Bruce's phone is part of the lyrics for "Gotta Let Go" by Hollywood Undead.

**Author's Note:**

> Yknow what.
> 
> I'm not gonna hold myself back anymore. I'm gonna write what I wanna fucking write. Things are really stressing me out. This week's been really shitty. I haven't slept peacefully nor undisturbed for a week. I keep getting nightmares and yesterday I was having a really good dream before everything turned to fucking shit and I woke up in an episode of sleep paralysis. 
> 
> On another note, I've been delving really deep into murder podcasts and this fic was actually an idea I've had since I jumped into the fandom from none other than the shitshow we call Homestuck about a good two years ago. Serial Killer Clark Kent. Yeah.
> 
> We will see how this goes because I'm not gonna hold back this time. I'm gonna go full in dark, graphic, and in no way pleasant. Characters will suffer. I will base stuff off of murders I've read about and psychological thrillers I've enjoyed, one of which being The Silence of the Lambs and more that I can no longer recall the titles of. I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I wanna do (this isn't passive aggressive at anyone, I just write like this often when unrestrained) with this story, and for those unfamiliar with how and what I write, the trigger warnings will be posted to the tags. 
> 
> Cause shit will get real if I can get to completing this.
> 
> Enjoy.


End file.
